Eyes Closed
by cyrilandshirley
Summary: One shot of Brendan in Barcelona, thinking about Ste.


**Eyes closed**

Brendan lay back on the sunbed. Behind his shades, the biggest fuck-off shades he'd been able to find, he narrowed his eyes against the light dancing on the hotel pool, and felt the sun warming his exposed skin, relaxing him. He had remembered the sun lotion, taking time to rub it in, his fingers massaging across the hard muscles, and the tube now lay, chucked aside, on the ground beside the lounger. The smell of the stuff was in his nose, bringing back memories of Chez's Mum reading him the riot act in the summer. "Get some of this on you, skinny malinky," she'd say to him, pale, white, with adolescent body hair that never for a second embarrassed her, "or we'll be having you roasted for dinner." Not that the sun ever bloody shone in Belfast anyway, so for one day a year, it was pretty academic. But he was the kind who burned easy, put it like that. Not one of these guys whose skin easily turned a golden honey brown at the first sign of summer. He felt a momentary twinge at the thought of tanned, glowing skin, and his eyes flickered open to follow a passing arse. The guy looked back over his shoulder, knowing he was being watched. Brendan settled back again, a slight smile hidden behind the tache. He had no intention of acting on it. But it pushed the twinge out of his head. And whatever had caused it.

He was wearing only a pair of speedos, and the shades. He didn't care. He felt comfortable in his body, now, in a way he never had much before. Not because he didn't think he was good-looking, he knew he was, in his own way, a bit rough around the edges maybe, a few war wounds. But because he'd always thought that if he uncovered, like this, all muscles and hair, that other people might see something in him that he'd never wanted them to see. That it might be visible on his body, this thing that was secret, that filled him with shame and horror. The thing that he'd never talked about, then. That he liked other men, physically. That he'd known them, lots of them, their mouths, their bodies, their muscles, their tight backsides, what was between their legs. It had to stay under wraps. And so did he.

That was why he'd always gone for the cover up, he guessed now, the sharp suits and big-collared shirts and pointy shoes and a bit of bling. It told a different story. But now, he had no problem with it, really. Things had changed. It had been hard. More painful than most people had guessed. Like going through the pain barrier, separating from his past, peeling it away, discarding it. But he'd realized he didn't have to leave everything behind. He could be both, he'd found. The guy in the suit, and the guy with the body that other men might want. And did want. No mistake about that. And hell, it felt good. It was his reward this, unwrapping, letting people see. And he had a lot to be looked at, since he'd worked out so relentlessly, that time he was banged up and needed every defence he could get. Not something he liked to think about now, but with some unexpected outcomes. He adjusted his body, moving his weight from one buttock to the other, and settled again. That was in the past. As were other things.

It had been a good trip, this visit to Barcelona. A friend's wedding, he'd told them back home, and they had looked at him, incredulous. And it was true, it was strictly business, but that was more of a buzz to him, if he was honest, then canapés and speeches. He had a different kind of friend, one who could scratch his back, financially speaking. And it had gone well. He'd set up the deal, the evening before, all very promising and satisfactory. He had celebrated by treating himself to a back-scratching encounter of the other kind. A brown haired guy, Spanish. Or was it Catalan, that funny language that he had crooned and muttered and then shouted as Brendan had fucked him soundly, taking it long and slow, the sweat building on both their bodies until the tide broke, the guy's spunk shooting over his belly, and Brendan had set to bringing himself to a rough, hot climax that seemed to match the April heat in the shuttered room. _Follar'm_, the guy had said to him, soft and low and insistent, and he didn't need a translator to know what it meant when someone looked at him with brown eyes like that, and pulled him down onto the bed, hands unbuckling him, eager, as they went, the international language of the one night screw. Again, all very promising, and all very satisfactory. He had sent him away, after. Early flight, he had told the guy. But really, he had just wanted to sleep alone.

He didn't need to be back at the airport before late afternoon, in fact. He was in no hurry. It's not as if he had much to go back for, really. Just the club, which he'd left in Joel's less than tender hands. He dreaded to think what he'd find when he got back, because frankly, he was discovering Joel was a bit of a muppet. He'd hoped that the lad would step up, prove himself, come to be someone he could lean on, but somehow he just never seemed to quite be able to fill those shoes. He didn't even care that much for the club now, he realized, though it had been everything for a while, the centre of his world. Now, it just felt like a burden. Chez was never there, her nose always buried in her books. The bar staff were … interchangeable. Rhys, who he'd despised in the past, was the only one he could really trust to hold the fort now, while he turned his mind to other deals. That's what he was there for, under a Spanish sun. He had needed a new challenge, a buzz, something that made him feel alive again. This deal, this one, was bigger than anything he'd tried before. It was new. It was his. Because everyone needs something of their own.

And that was the other thing. When he got back, there would be that other new place, over the road. The deli. Standing on the balcony, watching it take shape every day, right in front of him, watching them all excited together, two pairs of blue eyes, laughing, patting each other on the back, hugging. They'd got very huggy recently, he'd noticed, those two. He'd never been much of a hugger, except when Cheryl needed a buck up. It felt strange, watching it. As if he were only yards away, but behind glass, cut off, unable to reach them even when he went in to find out how it was going, and was met by a pout and a toss of the head from one, and a guilty look from the other. But he didn't feel part of it. Which was strange, because he was the one who had bankrolled the whole damn thing.

Why the hell had he done it? Because … No. The reasons were too complicated. Probably best not gone into. He'd thought he hadn't wanted any more of that. He'd deleted it from his life. He didn't need it anymore, it had got to the point where his brain felt like it was melting, his blood boiling, that he was losing control of … everything. And things happened, when he lost control. He guessed, even then, that he had always thought he could go back, if he wanted to. It had always worked before. Maybe he'd had to work for it a bit, but nothing was ever irreparable. So he'd stayed away for a while and then before he really understood what was happening … things had started to change. He'd had to stand on the margins, treading water, unable to intervene, and watch someone else's life start to develop in a way he hadn't really imagined. He'd even had to watch, one day recently, while someone got hurt. And when he took revenge, he'd had to hear it. "He can't stand you!" And it was true, it was in this person's eyes, smoky and resentful, that he hated him, that it didn't matter what he thought anymore, or what he did. He was OK, he said, he wasn't hurt, it was nothing. He could manage just fine on his own, even if he clearly didn't know how to iron a pair of trousers. So when he saw it all falling apart, this new life that someone was trying to build without him … he'd stepped in. Given them the money. All sorts of reasons. The only condition was, the person he most wanted to know, couldn't know. So he had to stand on the balcony of the club and watch, as it all took shape, and they clapped each other on the back, and knowing it was down to him was all he had.

He wasn't one for dreaming. He preferred cold, hard, reality. But it was the damndest thing. Sometimes, he couldn't stop himself thinking about what it would've been like if it had all been different. If it had all been out in the open, his role in it. If one pair of blue eyes had looked at him like that, shining. Proud, grateful. Partners. If it had been him being hugged, felt arms being thrown around his neck. If he'd been able to be part of it, the excitement, building something new, together.

But there wasn't much point in thinking about it. It was what it was. It had to be that way, because he had… No. Probably best not to go there either.

He concentrated instead on the Spanish sun hitting his body. He'd treated himself to a couple of cocktails, his own little celebration, umbrellas and all, and as the alcohol reached his bloodstream, he felt a slight wooziness take the edge off his thoughts. Behind the shades, he let his eyes fall fully closed. He concentrated instead on the sounds around him. Someone in the pool, crashing up and down, the slap of the water against the sides from the backwash. In the heat, even the sound began to seem fuzzy, remote. He let out a deep, low breath, his head turning to one side, the warmth hitting his cheek now.

But he continued to listen to the sounds in the background. He was like this. He never ever truly let go.

He lost track of time for a second. Then he became aware of the sounds of someone getting out of the pool. Hauling their body onto the side. The sound of some water, splashing, dripping. The flap of bare feet on the stone flags, light, wet, leaving dark footprints, no doubt.

And then a surprise. Someone sitting, sideways on, on the next lounger. Close. He stilled himself. A pickup? He wasn't really in the mood. Then a voice.

"'Ere, I could've tripped on that, me, y'know," it said. Easy, familiar. There was the sound of someone dumping the tube of lotion onto the table beside the lounger.

Damn. That voice. He went to move his head to see, but was stopped when the voice spoke again.

"Don't open your eyes. Leave 'em closed, you." It was soft, playful, but firm.

He was filled with a sense that he mustn't show that he was surprised to find him there. If he showed surprise, he would disappear, strop off. And he wasn't ready for him to disappear. Instead, he lay still, frowning, finding a giveaway half smile playing round his mouth.

"Why?" he asked, playing along with it. It was always best to play along, when he was in one of these moods.

"Cos I like looking at yer, dunt I?" The voice was unmistakeable. North West twang, light. And untroubled. That was good, untroubled, he liked that. He remembered that, vaguely, before it had all gone west. He must be enjoying taking a break.

Brendan half laughed in his chest, in reply. "Is that right?" he drawled, keeping his head turned away, his eyes closed behind the shades. "Why's that then?"

There was the sound of a sniff, again, familiar, slightly haughty. "You're always the one what does the watching," the voice said. "Now it's my turn to look at you, innit?"

Brendan kept his face impassive. Don't give too much away.

"What makes ye think I'm watching ye?" he asked him, nonchalant.

He was rewarded with a little dry laugh.

"Dunt think I 'aven't seen yer, on that balcony."

He was being teased. He'd almost forgotten what that felt like. Most people were too scared to try it. But he was also being watched, now. He felt his body tense a little, under the unexpected scrutiny. He twitched the moustache to relax himself. Cleared his throat.

"So," he said, keeping up the nonchalance. "What do ye see, now?"

There was a moment's pause.

"Ole fella. Not bad looking. Nice package. Bit wrinkly around the eyes." He could tell from the sound of the voice that he was grinning. He imagined the lips pulled back from the teeth. That grin, part cheeky, part shy, that could light up a room. He'd forgotten what that felt like, the way his face sort of completed things, his smile made an empty room seem full.

"Hey," he drawled, amused. "You can't see my eyes." His hand lifted and felt its way to the table on the far side of him. It landed on a cocktail umbrella. He tossed it in the direction of the voice and settled back again.

A laugh. God, a proper laugh, like a donkey.

"I know what your eyes are like, dunt I?" He imagined the wrinkled nose, the teasing expression. "Anyway, I like it."

"What, my wrinkles?" he asked, teasing, "or da other thing?"

There was another pause, that didn't feel empty. It was filled with the distant sound of the pool and the knowledge that the person was smiling. "Both," he said, eventually, with that unmistakable undertone of seduction he'd used in the past. Brendan felt himself smile, in return.

He listened to the sound of what seemed to be toweling off. Then what sounded like a kind of shiver and shake.

"Eurgggh … brrrugh!"

He wanted to laugh back now.

"Wha' are ye doing?"

"Got water in me ears, an't I?"

The voice was waspish, funny. How he often was. Brendan imagined the open mouth, the protesting face.

Suddenly, there was the sound of someone getting up, the creak of a lounger.

"Here," the voice said, "shift up."

And Brendan felt the body move across, and get onto his lap.

It was unexpected. He almost opened his eyes, as he felt the weight that was no weight settle on his. He held his hands to the side, as if afraid to touch him.

"Uh uh, keep em closed, you," came the voice. Closer now. Right in front of him.

But he didn't need to open his eyes to know what was now on his lap, and settling down into his arms. The physical reality of him. His body. His skin, warm and slightly damp, honey golden. His hair, in wet strands on his crown, cut neat and sharp, darkest of dirty dark blond. A soft, puckered mouth, like a ripe fig. Just a pair of speedos, rucked up over his small, firm, perfect backside. Slim, muscular body. Damp brown hair, masculine, drying on his arms, legs, and a little on his chest and belly. He felt the familiar head nestling into his chest, a touch of lips on his collar bone first, then finding a resting place.

Brendan felt the shock of how much he had missed it. He snaked an arm around the upper body, and placed another on one thigh, his thumb rubbing gently against the light hair. His heart hammered. He wondered if he would be able to feel it, how hard his heart was beating, and it would scare him off. He tried to breathe deeply, to slow his pulse.

Then he turned his head a little and rested his lips on the wet hair, inhaled. It smelt of sunshine, and suntan lotion, and something else. Something he found it hard to put his finger on, something elusive. Something that also began with an S. It smelt of Stephen. Special, and unique, and Stephen.

They lay there together, and he felt the head, resting comfortable now against his shoulder. One of Stephen's hands raked idly through his chest hair, as they had done in the past, after they'd had sex. He heard that voice again, reverberating softly against his chest.

"Does this bother you?" the voice said. Not anxious, just curious.

"No," he said, and it was true. The only thing that bothered him was knowing that it would end.

"Not that people can see?" He felt the head stir, knew Stephen was looking up at him.

"No."

He knew this kind of thing had never bothered Stephen. He'd always been like this, always. Wide open, physically unselfconscious. Once he'd got over the surprise of being wanted like that, desired, he'd always been quick to throw off his clothes, pull off Brendan's, tugging, touching, feeling, sucking, finding out. And he never made much distinction between what was private, and what you show the world, except the obvious stuff. He was almost the opposite of everything Brendan was. He knew that given half a chance, Stephen would throw himself at him, hug him, touch hands, plant a kiss on his cheek. It was one of the things that had kept pulling him back, that body, uncovering, open, wanting him. And it was one of the things that had driven him insane, pushing him away, the demands that came with it.

But now, he didn't give a damn. It was strange to realize it. People being able to see them didn't mean anyone owned them.

He felt a touch from that soft, dirty mouth nuzzled against the underside of his jaw. Then a question, asked against his skin.

"So, d'yer still want me, Brendan?"

He frowned, caught on the hop by taking such a direct hit. He felt exposed enough by the inevitable stirring in his speedos, brought on by the closeness of Stephen's body, something he must be able to feel but seemed completely unbothered by, his hip resting against Brendan's cock.

"What kind of question is that?" he asked him, playing for time.

"Just a question," he felt Stephen's shoulder shrug, casual. "Do you still want me?"

He tightened his hand on the shoulder, pulled him in for a moment. Spoke into the warm hair.

"Yeah. You know I still want you." It was both easy, and fucking hard, to say it.

A laugh, responding, straightforward. As if that was all it took. "That's good." Then a pause. "Why did you hurt me then?" Another direct hit.

A silence. This thing. This thing that they never talked about. Not properly. How it had all ended.

Fingers, tracing his ribs. Poking.

"Brendan?"

"I never … I never wanted to hurt you," he said. It sounded lame. But it was true. He never had wanted to. Not really. Only … to let it out a bit. How much the whole fucking thing had hurt him. Taking back the power.

"You did though, didn't you?" Stephen's voice was soft, but insistent.

"Yes."

A pause. A sigh, against his chest. But a hand, reaching for his, winding its fingers between his, hanging on.

"Why did yer? Honest answer."

Honest? This was hard. But there was no escaping it. It had run through his brain every night in prison.

"You gave up on me," he said, eventually. Felt a responding squeeze, from Stephen's hand.

"Do you blame me?"

"No …" an automatic answer.

"Yeah, you do," he was interrupted. He sounded sad.

Brendan felt his patience wearing. Not with Stephen, but with himself. He took a deep breath.

"OK, yeah, I do. I did. You gave up on me, Stephen."

A shake of the head.

"Not completely. Not til after you gave up on me."

He felt his arms tighten around him for a moment. Had he given up on Stephen? Yeah, he guessed maybe he had. Waiting in jail, night after night, day after day, for a visit that never comes, a call, a message, can do that to you, even when you know you've done nothing to deserve it, and everything not to. Suddenly there seemed to be a lot of things they'd never said to each other. He'd never been much of a one for talking. And what they had said had been designed to hurt, both ways. They'd been reduced to throwing verbal grenades at each other, talking in threatening riddles, rain is on the way yada yada, as if they had no words left to explain any of it. He had never meant to let it get so bad, but he'd felt powerless to stop himself, like being stuck on a runaway train to oblivion.

"I never meant to …"

"Don't."

Not good enough. He had done it, and it couldn't be washed away. But he was spared finding another answer by the sound of Stephen's clearing his throat, and his voice, again.

"Anyway, it's not all about you, you know." Back to the sulky, pouty Stephen of old. "You haven't asked me if I still want you."

He felt his body relax a little. He was usually sure of the answer to this one.

"Do you?" he murmured, into the hair.

There was a pause. He expected it. But he didn't expect the answer.

"I don't know, now."

He'd been expecting Stephen just to deny it, and then be talked round. That's what he usually did.

He felt a hand come up and run, softly, over the tache.

"I won't let you hurt me, Brendan," he said. It was surprisingly matter of fact. "No one's gonna hurt me again. Not you, not anybody."

"I won't …" he started, but felt fingers hushing his mouth.

"Don't make promises you can't keep," Stephen said.

And he wasn't sure now. He didn't want to hurt him. He was done with hurting him. The whole thing just hurt too much. But he didn't know how to be sure of it.

He stopped. He had wanted this, for them to talk; or not talk, not like that, they were past all that, just to be together, somehow, and say what was in their heads. Just that, not having to keep second guessin each other. Not even having to look each other in the eye. It made it easier, somehow, just bodies, eyes closed. But now they were here, there didn't seem to be anything that would fix it.

"Are we done, then?" he asked him, his throat surprisingly tight, his lips still buried, deeper now, in the rapidly drying hair.

There was a silence, that was finally broken.

"I'm here, aren't I?"

Those words. Those were the words he'd used when Stephen had asked him to do the impossible, take him out, declare him, admit something that it had killed him to admit. It had all been totally fucking impossible. But he had still done it. Tried, anyway. _I'm here, aren't I?_

"Yeah," Brendan said, "You're here."

He felt Stephen's face tip up towards his own. He kept his eyes closed, and leaned down, and then felt it. His mouth. That mouth, like a ripe fig. He felt his hand reach for Stephen's face, to steady them, as Stephen's came to his. It went on for a while, that kiss. Just reminding himself, what those lips felt like, soft and warm, and feeling Stephen's mouth remembering his.

They pulled apart, faces still almost touching. He could feel his breath.

"It's a mess though, innit?" Stephen said.

"You could say that, yeah," he said.

Because it's a fucking mess, when you love somebody, but you can't be with them. When every trip you take is a way of trying to escape, but you always end up back where you started. When every deal you make is a way of trying to stack the odds in your favour, and you still lose. When every other body you take is a way of forgetting them, and all it does is remind you how much you're missing.

He felt Stephen's hand, stroking his arm while they said nothing.

"Yer eyes still closed?" he heard Stephen ask suddenly, quietly.

"Yeah."

"You can open them in two ticks."

It made him laugh, short dry, feeling his firm chest lift Stephen's body.

"Is that right? Who made you the boss?"

A responding laugh, against his chest. "You did."

Brendan smiled. Yeah, he had done that, hadn't he? He had put Stephen in charge of his own future. It's just he had no idea whether, or how, Stephen would ever choose to let him back into it.

Suddenly, he became aware of the sound of the pool again, in the background. The warm red light coming through his eyelashes and lids.

"We'll sort it all out," Stephen said, into Brendan's chest, "when we get home."

And then, before he could stop him, he was leaving. Brendan felt the weight of Stephen's body lift up off his knee. His pulse raced and his body seemed to be coming up from somewhere warm and deep. He felt as if he needed to get somewhere, and fast. He remembered where.

Home.

He could still hear the word, clearly, in Stephen's voice.

He had to get home.

He opened his eyes, blinking behind the shades. His arms were empty. There was no one there. The sun felt cold, on his skin. Enough to make his flesh goosebump.

Through his open eyes, all he could see was light, dancing over the water. No swimmers.

He swung his legs off the lounger and sat up. He had dreamt the whole fucking thing. It was nothing. His stomach contracted, tight, defensive. His fucking brain, conjuring up the very damn thing he was trying to forget. Damn, damn, damn. He shook his head, as if water from the pool was in his ears, not Stephen's, trying to clear his head.

Because if that had been a dream, it had felt like the most real thing to happen to him all year. Since he'd gone to jail, maybe, got buried alive in there and had had to put everything he had into just not going under. Since then, there had been one second, maybe, when he first saw Stephen again, bumped into him in the bloody street, and he had been taller and more beautiful than Brendan had let himself remember, and Stephen had gazed at him with those eyes and tried to get through to him … _that _had been real, even if he'd pushed him away, like he always did, thrown it aside. But everything else … he wondered if he'd actually been sleepwalking, the last six months. Warren. Declan. Joel. The guy in the bar, and all the other guys since, anonymous, interchangeable fucks. None of that seemed real. And he hadn't wanted to admit it, had just closed his eyes, tried to blot out the feeling that he was just marking time, directionless. But he had opened his eyes now, finally. And he could see now that the only thing that really made him feel alive was the one thing that disappeared when he did.

Fuck it all, he thought, trying to shake it off, the memory. You can't live on some pathetic dream.

He took off his shades, narrowing his eyes against the glare of the sun, rubbed them with his fingers. Looked around him. And froze.

Because there was a cocktail umbrella and a damp towel, thrown aside on the next lounger; the impression of a small, firm, perfect backside in the cushion.

A tube of suntan lotion, on the table between the loungers.

And a trail of damp footprints, disappearing fast in the sun, leading from the lounger to the hotel, pointing away.

Pointing home.


End file.
